


Force Me to Keep You as a Prisoner

by Eione



Category: The Winter's Tale - Shakespeare
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Forced Infidelity, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, Multiple Orgasms, Necrophilia, Nipple Play, Nonconsensual Necromancy, Possessive Behavior, Strap-Ons, Temporary Character Death, Treat, Victim must stay with rapist for their own safety, dark Paulina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 09:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11506668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eione/pseuds/Eione
Summary: Paulina will do anything to keep her dear queen safe and alive. And hers.





	Force Me to Keep You as a Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeFeuNoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeFeuNoir/gifts).



After so long, Paulina knows exactly how to touch Hermione, how to make her pant and shiver and yield in every way. Paulina has undressed her tenderly, leaving her queen’s beautiful body stretched out on the bed in a languid sprawl of limbs. She undresses herself quickly and climbs onto the bed, covering Hermione’s body with her own and pressing her down with chest and hips and thighs. She knows Hermione will not move away, but she thrills at having Hermione pinned under her. Paulina is wet already from feeling Hermione’s sweet body beneath her and from anticipation of what is to come. But she will serve her queen first.

She mouths at Hermione’s earlobe, sliding her tongue along the warm skin, then adds a gentle scrape of her teeth. Hermione’s breath is quickening already. She tries to turn her head away, but Paulina catches her chin and holds her in place while she carefully sucks and licks at all the most sensitive areas of her skin. She means to take her time, giving due attention to every part of her queen’s body.

“Paulina,” Hermione gasps out, and Paulina lowers her head to press hot kisses along Hermione’s jaw, sucks at her throat in the exact spot that makes her tremble. “Paulina, thou wert once faithful to me.”

“And so I am still, my queen,” Paulina assures her with a look of devotion.

“By that faith,” Hermione says hoarsely, “do not-- do not use me thus.”

“It is to preserve your life, dear lady,” Paulina says, as she has many times before. Hermione is too weak to sit up or rise from the bed, the magic that sustains her all but gone. Her cheeks are pale, her eyes dull and her lips nearly blue. But Paulina will change all that, bringing her back to full life and health and beauty.

“A kind deed can be cruelty, to one who receives it unwilling.” Hermione forces out her words with difficulty, and Paulina shivers, knowing that she is the one who has put that breathy rasp in Hermione’s voice. She has slid down lower, cupping Hermione’s full breasts, admiring the warmth and weight of them in her hands. She squeezes and caresses them gently until Hermione’s nipples tighten and rise, flushing darker with arousal.

“Paulina, do not do me such-- ah!” Hermione’s words cut off with a gasp as Paulina licks slowly along one nipple.

Hermione’s nipples are delightfully sensitive; even when Hermione tries to resist, Paulina only has to suck on them for a little while to make her body respond. She gives her attention to them now, taking each one in turn into her mouth and sucking eagerly, rubbing against the hardened nub with her tongue. Hermione feebly tries to push her away, but Paulina holds her down. She releases Hermione’s nipple from her mouth and covers it with teasing licks, then does the same to the other. Hermione’s head falls back, her lips parting with a sigh. Paulina slides her hand between Hermione’s legs and finds her wet, hot and slick under Paulina’s searching fingers. Hermione gasps, and Paulina draws her hand back to grip Hermione’s thigh. Paulina has done this to Hermione, roused her and made her want it; that knowledge makes heat shoot through her, her desire a hot pulse between her legs. She moans desperately as she takes Hermione’s nipple in her mouth again. Hermione tries to twist away, but Paulina continues, relentless, until Hermione is flushed and panting, her hips jerking beneath Paulina in small motions.

Hermione’s eyes are closed, her jaw tightly clenched so no sound escapes. Hermione is chaste and modest; she often acts so, fighting against her own desires and holding off the moment of surrender as long as possible. But she is a queen; it is her right to make Paulina work for her reward. Every moan or sigh Hermione utters sends a thrill of power through Paulina, knowing that Hermione would keep them back, and her resistance makes it all the sweeter when she inevitably yields to Paulina’s touch.

Paulina has always been proud of her tongue, witty and quick--and it is deft in this also. She slides lower again, gripping Hermione’s thighs, and licks slowly along the entrance of Hermione’s cunt. Hermione jerks and utters a soft cry that shoots through Paulina like lightning. Paulina’s breath comes in soft moans, and she can feel the wetness along her own thighs. Her own body is hot and ready, desperately aching to be touched, but she will not indulge herself until she has satisfied Hermione’s desire to the fullest.

It is so sweet to serve Hermione thus, seeing and feeling her body’s eager response. Paulina sucks at Hermione’s nub and licks at her, tasting salt. Hermione has forced herself into silence now, but her body is trembling, close to the edge. Paulina slides her tongue over Hermione’s most intimate parts again and again in an obscene kiss, urging her on, and it is not long before Hermione’s body arches upward, twisting in helpless pleasure. Paulina continues to move her tongue against Hermione’s nub, drawing out the moment as long as she can, and she is rewarded by hearing Hermione moan.

At that Paulina can resist her own body’s needs no longer. She rises to her knees and mounts Hermione’s thigh, crying out as she finally feels the press of flesh against her cunt where she so desperately wants it. She rocks back and forth, Hermione’s warm skin beneath her quickly becoming wet and slippery with Paulina’s arousal. But she wants to feel all of Hermione’s body under her; she braces herself on her arms and lowers herself down, pinning Hermione down again, and grinds her nub and cunt desperately against Hermione’s thigh, a hot slick sliding and clenching that quickly brings her close to the edge. She grabs Hermione’s hair and pulls her close for a passionate kiss, thrusting her tongue into Hermione’s mouth. Hermione twists under her, the motion pressing her leg against Paulina’s nub again; white-hot pleasure shoots through her and she bucks against Hermione, grinding down again and again until at last desire is spent.

Paulina strokes Hermione’s hair gently while she catches her breath. The spell has worked; Hermione’s eyes are bright again, her face and lips no longer pale but restored to a healthy color. Paulina rolls off Hermione and props herself on one elbow to enjoy the picture she presents. Hermione looks utterly debauched: her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, the marks of Paulina’s mouth on her neck and throat, her legs spread to reveal her wet cunt.

As Paulina watches, Hermione sits up, drawing her knees together in a vain attempt at modesty, and turns her face away. Paulina has seen her in the aftermath of love more times than she can count. She can barely remember now how she hesitated the first time, pulling aside Hermione’s garments with trembling hands.

On that terrible day ten years ago, after Leontes, still weeping, was led away by his lords, Paulina was left to watch over her queen’s body. Blazing with rage at Leontes, desperate with grief for her queen, she knelt beside the bier and prayed, not to bright Apollo of Delphos but to Dis and Proserpina, to triple Hecate and Mercury of the underworld. And finally, at the darkest hour of the night, her prayer was answered. Proserpina appeared to her, crowned with gold and wrapped in a dark mantle, her face pale and her mouth red as pomegranate seeds. Bending down, she whispered in Paulina’s ear what she must do if she wished her queen to live.

It was simple enough to fill the coffin with false weight, to wrap Hermione’s body in cloaks and have her secretly brought to a secluded house to which only Paulina held the keys. Paulina fulfilled the ritual in every detail, burning myrrh and sage and frankincense and the pit of a ripe peach, sweet resin of the snowbell tree and seven magic herbs whose names it was forbidden to utter. When the room was filled with a cloud of fragrant smoke, she set out the offerings: honey and unmixed wine, well-water drawn at midnight and milk from a black cow. She carefully freed Hermione from her wrappings to leave her naked, shuddering as her hands brushed the chill skin. For her queen, she would do even this.

Proserpina had traced mystic signs in the air, and they seemed to burn before Paulina’s eyes as she drew them on slips of parchment. The parchment must be burned then, the ashes mixed with ink; with that same ink, she traced more mystic figures and hidden names of the gods on Hermione’s motionless body. Lastly-- Paulina closed her eyes, remembering Proserpina’s lips brushing her ear as she spoke the words. For Hermione to be restored to life, her body must be forced to remember life and passion. The one performing the ritual must consummate it by taking her pleasure from Hermione’s body.

Paulina pressed a kiss upon Hermione’s cold lips. Hermione was still so beautiful, her beloved queen. Paulina lay down beside her and took the corpse into her arms, held and touched and stroked her until she began to grown warm with the heat of Paulina’s body. For Hermione’s sake, Paulina pulled her own skirts up around her waist and made love to the corpse, her legs straddling Hermione’s thigh, her fingers forcing open Hermione’s cunt and thrusting into her. Paulina shuddered and came against Hermione’s unmoving body--and then, to her great joy, she felt a heartbeat awaken in Hermione’s chest, beating strong and steady. When Hermione stirred and opened her eyes, Paulina had no doubt that she had done aright.

Miraculous as the spell is, it must be renewed from time to time, or Hermione will die again. Every three months is enough, as long as Paulina supplements it with daily touches. Twice or thrice each day, she hurries home to this remote house, unlocks the doors for herself and locks them carefully again behind her. If she is ever followed, no one must disturb her queen’s sanctuary. She stays only a short time before she must return to court, but it is long enough to stroke Hermione’s hair or touch her hand, press a brief kiss to her lips or her neck. Hermione tried to evade those touches at first; it only took a few days before she was weak enough that Paulina could easily hold her in place. Now she allows it, standing in mute dignity with her head turned away. Paulina understands and takes no offense; it must shame her to be so dependent on another, even though Paulina will never begrudge her any task or any service.

Paulina has become adept in reading the signs of the spell’s fading, and most often she is able to renew it when Hermione is weakened but not dead or dying. Yet sometimes she misjudges. Paulina prefers it when Hermione is warm and living, trembling with passion beneath her, but she no longer hesitates to touch her, whether living or dead. The corpse becomes a living woman again soon enough, and Paulina takes satisfaction in knowing that no one else can do this for her. Sometimes Paulina indulges herself and lets Hermione tremble back into life with Paulina’s fingers or a leather phallus still inside of her.

This time she has judged it well and brought the living Hermione to bed in mutual pleasure. Hermione is covered only by her hair, and Paulina looks at her affectionately. It is a pity that Hermione will want to dress; she is beautiful as a marble statue, and there is no one but Paulina here to see her.

“Paulina,” Hermione says, turning back towards her. “Wilt thou answer something for me?”

“Anything, my queen.”

Hermione draws in a breath and lets it out again. “Thou seest Leontes at court daily. Tell me, prithee, how he does.”

Paulina frowns. “It imports naught to you, sweet queen. Let him not come into your thoughts.”

“He is my husband,” Hermione says softly. “And thou hast said he repents of his deeds towards me.”

“Not enough,” Paulina says coldly. “Let him wear out the unyielding flints with his knees not for ten years, but ten times ten years. Let him weep until Neptune’s realm o’erflows the land with salt water. It still would not be enough to atone for his wrongs against you, sweet and virtuous lady!”

“Virtuous?” Hermione gives an odd laugh. “What virtue can I have, who have given my body to shame, though all unwilling? I am scarce better than that Leontes accused me of.”

“His words were false,” Paulina says fiercely, “and he is false still, a false treacherous knave, who would accuse you of any wrong. You have never lain with another man. Only with me.”

Hermione shakes her head. “Paulina, dost think because I do not weep, that I feel no sorrow? Let me leave this house. Let me see my lord once more.”

Paulina feels a sudden surge of anger. This to her, after all she has done for Hermione’s sake? “Leontes does not deserve to draw breath in your presence! Only I can keep you safe and whole.” The thought of Leontes taking Hermione as his queen again, of him having her beside him at court, at his board, his bed--it is maddening. Paulina flings herself at Hermione, knocking her backwards. Hermione is taken by surprise, and Paulina is able to grasp her wrists and hold them together. She reaches for Hermione’s discarded silk sash and uses it to tie her wrists together, then bind them to the head of the bed. Hermione struggles, but though she is taller, Paulina is the stronger.

Paulina’s breath quickens again at seeing Hermione jerk futilely against her bonds. Her white wrists are very lovely, and the blue silk sets them off well.

“Thou didst once call my lord a tyrant,” Hermione says with a flash of defiance.  “But thou art become a worse tyrant to me than Leontes ever was, and a stricter gaoler!”

“Speak not of Leontes! Let his name not pass your lips.”

Paulina reaches for a particular box that rests on a small table near the bed. In her anger, she fumbles with the latches before she can open it. Inside is a false prick made of leather, thick and pleasing in shape. There are straps, too, that secure it in place around Paulina’s hips; she adjusts it until it stands forth as proudly as if it grew from her flesh.

“No,” Hermione says, almost inaudible. Paulina ignores her protest; she forces open Hermione’s legs, pushing Hermione’s knees back until her cunt is exposed and tilted upward. She stations herself above Hermione and thrust down hard. Hermione cries out as it enters her. Hermione’s cunt is still wet and slick from earlier; the leather prick slides in easily. Paulina can imagine how it feels stretching Hermione, filling her, how her cunt must be clenching around it.

Paulina gives her only a moment to adjust to it, then drives into her hard and fast, forcing Hermione’s hot flesh open with every stroke.  The slick wet noises as she thrusts into Hermione’s cunt again and again, the soft sounds Hermione makes every time the thick leather thrusts into her, the sight of Hermione struggling futilely in her bonds, the impact of Paulina’s hard thrusts that jolts through both their bodies until she knows that Hermione will feel the ache of it tomorrow and remember--the knowledge that she has Hermione in her power, possesses her entirely-- She is filled with a blazing fire. No one else will ever touch Hermione again, no one will have her as Paulina has her now with her legs spread open and her cunt yielding to every stroke. “Thou art mine,” she cries out wildly, “mine, mine--” and it takes only a brief pressure of her fingers against her nub to tip her over the edge, shuddering in pleasure with her leather prick buried deep in Hermione’s cunt.

Hermione is still pulling at her bonds. Paulina will make her forget Leontes, forget Polixes or anyone else she has ever thought fair. Paulina slides her fingers into Hermione’s cunt beside the leather prick, stretching her wider, enjoying the hot tight grip of Hermione’s cunt around her fingers and the pulse she can feel beating in Hermione’s flesh.

Once her fingers are thoroughly wet with Hermione’s arousal, Paulina pulls them out and begins to thrust the prick into her again, this time more slowly. She finds Hermione’s nub and rubs at it with her slick fingers, in the motions she knows Hermione likes best. Hermione is still aroused and sensitive from her earlier pleasure; she won’t be able to resist for long. To make sure of it, Paulina leans forward and grasps Hermione’s nipple with her free hand, twisting it gently between her fingers as she thrusts and rubs, overpowering Hermione with sensation in every part of her body. “Thou’rt mine,” Paulina murmurs again, “only mine!”

“No,” Hermione gasps, her hips jerking. “No, no-- ah!” And she is shuddering and moaning, her body clenching down on Paulina’s false prick.

Paulina gives a sigh of satisfaction when Hermione stills. Perhaps she should do this more often, beyond what is required for the life-giving spell. Hermione might put her off with false modesty, but her body is always eager for it, wanting it as much as Paulina does. Reluctantly, she sits back, letting her prick slide out of Hermione’s body.

Hermione raises her head to look at her, though her bound hands make the movement awkward. “Let the spell end, Paulina. Let me die.”

Paulina knows Hermione does not mean what she says. Paulina once dared to face Leontes in his wrath, defying him in order to do him good against his will. It is more loyal to disobey, when to obey would harm the one she serves, and Paulina will do what she must to keep Hermione safe. “Never,” Paulina promises her. “My dear lady, my precious queen. I will never let you die.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Force me to keep you as a prisoner": from Act I scene 2, where Hermione says it as a mock threat to Polixenes.


End file.
